


Theophile

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: After he's rescued from the s**o, Alex sees the light.  Sorta...





	Theophile

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Theophile by Spike

11 October 1998  
"Theophile" (1/1)  
by Spike  
Disclaimer: "These X-Files characters don't belong to me." -- from Spike's Big Copyright Book of Duh!  
Spoilers: obliquely, Terma -- a post s**o story  
Summary: After he's rescued from the s**o, Alex sees the light. Sorta...  
Archive: Yes please. Just let me know and keep my name attached.  
Rating: NC-17 for sadomasochistic violence, very dark theme, m/m sex  
Author's Note: This vignette was inspired by Cody Nelson's brilliant, sexy, poignant story "Extrophile" -- it's not a sequel or anything -- certainly not authorized, tho I did show it to her -- I was just kind of overwhelmed by a dark alternate take on the ending and this thang jumped out of my head. Not sure if it stands on its own or not but it's kind of dark and dirty so what the heck -- I'm posting it :) Not betaed, tho some kind souls did advise on certain major boo-boos for which I'm grateful. Any other mistakes are mine own.  
Feedback: Gawd, yes! Anywhere, anytime. Or private, send it to Spike at <>

* * *

Theophile  
by Spike  
8/19/98

"Do it, Alex..." says the man who rescued him from hell. 

The sound unmakes him -- words eroding silence -- and the voice...

Naked in the motel's grimy dusk; the perfumed reek of soap, remembered diesel oil and sex and he is wicked hard. His breathing hitches, rasps across the liquid pulse of blood. He cups his throat there, finger and thumb each at point of jaw and feels the heavy beat against his palm. Life. Real life beneath his hand. His own life, perilously close. He imagines the spilled heat of blood across his chest and groans. His skin is slick, his sweat thick and oily still 

//Oil. Flowing, filling. Owning him and wanting... With memory, the sour tang of terror floods like metal in his mouth. Terror and desire. Never one without the other now. And yet he can't resist.//

His hand slides down, pulled by gravity, by the weight of lust. Fingers graze the brown coin of a nipple. Tender flesh draws tight as thumb and finger tease the newly risen bud.

"Make it hurt."

The voice, implacable, is like the drench of blood: terrible and thrilling. He whimpers and obeys: fingers tighten, crush, grind hard enough to catalyze pain to pleasure. Desire spikes and sizzles; spirals down to a tight, glowing coil in his groin. Air hisses sharp between clenched teeth. He's shaking with want, wishing for a clip, a pin, something hard and bright to hold the pain in place.

But he has only this, his one handed mudhra, his kama sutra pose. He almost laughs, lips peeling back from teeth like a death's head grimace. He holds the pain, holds it, feels lust run glutinous strings from white hot nipple to the cock heavy weight between his legs. Could he come from this alone? >From pain and fear and the pornographic image of his own helplessness? Could he...?

"My turn now." The voice again. Low, knowing, rough with it's own dark desire. Oh God, what will you do to me? he wonders. What will I let you do? Wild buck of hips. Left hand pincers on the nipple, right hand frozen at his side.

Oh God...

The answer falls like scales from his eyes and his heart falters at the sudden, unveiled truth. Anything. Any fucking thing he wants. He looks down at himself, shadows limned with yellow neon light. Naked, hand to nipple, blood-darkened cock heavy and hot as an animal between his thighs. A long-fingered hand, not his own, slides around his left hip; another snakes over his right shoulder, light catching the bright flat blade of a straight-edge. Cool fingers wrap around his cock; cool steel lights gently on his throat. He groans, leans into that deadly embrace. His head falls back onto an unseen shoulder as he thrusts into that elegant grip. 

The hand works him hard, each stroke a matchhead flare of pure desire. The razor at his throat taps feather-light against his skin. Oh God, he thinks, I could, oh God. A sound escapes him, gut-punched sob of need ascending like a generator's whine. Toward ecstasy. Culmination. Oblivion. His hips buck wildly. His eyes roll back, lashes flutter closed against his cheeks. And the hand at his throat withdraws. 

Hm? he wonders at the odd percussive tug beneath his chin. And a curtain of wet and chilling heat falls across his chest, branding comprehension on his flesh.

Jesus! God! It's done. Done and he is...dead?

Time stops. For an instant he is poised in moveless, changeless space and everything drops away -- pleasure, pain, fear. Terror and desire sublimate to nothing and just for that one instant he is in a place of dark and perfect peace. 

And like a roar from behind orgasm takes him and he is over the edge, and falling, rising, screaming out the name of his brand new religion. Choking out one final prayer for mercy to his once and future god...

*********

"I was thinking about Chinese." Fingers trace delicate lines on the roll of muscle at the back of his neck.

"Hnh." he says. No answer but it's all that he can muster and even that small movement of his throat lights the fiery line of pain the razor made.

"Alex?" Tentative. Ginger. "Alex, are you really okay?"

"Okay," he lies. Or maybe tells the truth. How the hell would he know? He shifts, buries his head beneath the pillow, not quite ready to emerge and gaze upon the beaming countenance of God. 

But God is restless, twitchy.

Alex feels the bed bounce as he moves down to lie shoulder to shoulder. Lips brush his cheek, warm breath mists the tender flesh inside his ear as lord and master speaks.

"I don't think I like that game," says God. Alex makes a sound that couldn't really be mistaken for a laugh.

"'S okay," he says, his voice like sand on cotton. "We only have to play it once."

"Well, good," For a blissful moment fingers pry the tension from his neck, and then: "So howzabout Chinese?"

Jesus, Krycek thinks. Every other fucking night, Chinese. But still: "Sure, Mulder," he says, softly. Reverently. "Any fucking thing you want."

=end=


End file.
